


First Person Imperfect

by Stormheller



Category: due South
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, First Time, M/M, Missing Scene, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 01:38:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormheller/pseuds/Stormheller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Fraser had met Ray Kowalski when he first came to Chicago?</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Person Imperfect

**Author's Note:**

> Beta’d by Valentin, proofed by m_butterfly and PRZed  
> Originally published Duet 2 from Duet Press  
> Nominated for Huggy Award for Best Zine Story 2003.
> 
> IF YOU LIKED THIS STORY... please check out my pro writing.   
> My gay stories here: http://www.stormgrant.com/  
> My urban fantasy here: http://ginaxgrant.wordpress.com/the-relucant-reaper-series/  
> Thank you,  
> ~ Gina / Stormy / Stormheller

 

**Part 1: I first came to Chicago…**   
****

 

My duffel rams my thigh hard as I slide across the filthy plastic seat protector to slam into the ill-fitting car door. I had thought U-turns quite illegal in both our countries. My quest for seatbelts proving fruitless, I hang on to the seat in front of me for dear life.

I’m just about to ask to be let out here—anywhere—to find my own way by foot when the driver stops abruptly. I may have a headrest-shaped bruise on my sternum tomorrow.

“Here ya go, mister.”

“Don’t turn the meter off just yet, please. I’m not actually stopping here.”

“Huh?” He peers suspiciously at my stated destination. The large bold lettering over the entrance reads: _Chicago Police Department. Twenty-seventh Precinct_. “You a cop?”

The tedious flight, coupled with the long walk after leaving O’Hare Airport before I finally managed to hail this cab, has left me tired, footsore and rather disinclined to explain the true nature of my presence in Chicago and my lack of jurisdiction here. I answer only: “Yes”. It is the truth, after all.

“Where to now, bud… er, sir?”

“Could you take me to an inexpensive hotel in the area, please? Preferably within walking distance.”

“In this neighbourhood? You sure?” He studies me in the rear-view mirror.

“This neighbourhood will do nicely.” Indeed, I’ve had ample opportunity to survey my new surroundings during the repetitive tour he’s so graciously given me.

“Okay, pal. It’s your funeral.”

“A direct route would be appreciated.” His eyes flicker away.

“Here ya go,” he repeats, this time stopping before a dilapidated building that might once have featured an art deco façade.

“Thank you kindly. I trust this will be sufficient.” I pay him from the right front pocket of my jeans, where I keep my American currency.

I engage a room from the fit-looking young man at the front desk who, rather predictably, requests cash up front. He then insists on seeing me to my room, despite my assurances that I can find 3B on my own. As he reaches for my bag, our fingers brush. He smiles warmly, brown eyes crinkling at the corners, despite his youth. I wonder if he extends this personal service to all his guests.

He tells me briefly of his studies—he’s an engineering student, it seems—as the elevator rattles and shakes us to the third floor. I resolve to take the stairs in future.

He unlocks the door and proceeds with the standard tour of the room’s few amenities. He gives a certain lilt to the word “bed”, adding “firm, yet yielding”. He’s grinning at his own ridiculous come-on, and I find myself returning his smile. He looks even younger when he smiles. I can clearly see the impression on his fine, even teeth of braces not long removed. He heads for the open doorway and poses there, one hip braced against the frame, smile widening when I ask where the hotel’s dining room is located.

“Don’t have one,” he answers.

I’m a little surprised the hotel doesn’t have so much as a coffee shop. Back home, the hotels in almost every community have a public room on their premises. Indeed, “going to the hotel” is analogous with going for an alcoholic libation. In many places I’ve lived or been stationed, the local hotel is the only restaurant in town.

“Well, then. Could you recommend a place where I might get a meal? A local tavern, perhaps?”

“I could.” He licks his lips suggestively and strokes his hand across his belly. “But if you can wait until I finish work, I’ll personally escort you. I get off at ten, and babe, so will you.”

I’m somewhat taken aback by his forwardness, but it’s not entirely off-putting. I run my eyes up and down his athletic body, handsome face, brown eyes warm against swarthy complexion, and consider. Tempting. Tempting indeed. I believe a little liaison is an excellent idea. It would be prudent, wise, even, to take the edge off my ongoing rage at the slow-moving wheels of justice. And at the apparently slower-moving detective in charge of my father’s case, before meeting him or her tomorrow. Before I can finish the thought my stomach rumbles loudly; the in-flight meal was not as sustaining as the pemmican I donated at the airport.

“Or you could eat first, and I’ll still get off at ten.” My host chuckles good-naturedly. “Try The Holy Grill. It’s down Peter, along Tamarack, and… here.” Grabbing hotel stationery from the room’s battered desk, he proceeds to draw a fairly comprehensive map: not to scale, though.

I listen to him leave, the rickety elevator descending with creaks and groans. I’m a bit relieved he went away without any fuss; sometimes my …admirers… don’t. I remember this one rather persistent girl… but my stomach is calling loudly, and I leave off my musings.

Something to eat first, then I can consider other appetites.

~~~

I head for The Holy Grill with some trepidation, unused as I am to large urban centres. Although I spent almost five weeks in Moose Jaw, as well as attending the Depot in Regina, I’m still a little uneasy being on my own in a large city, and an American one at that. I’ve _read_ about American cities.

The pub, however, is actually quite similar to many such places back home. It features a section of tables near the front across from the bar, two pool tables in the middle, and a small dance floor at the back. A number of men are gathered around one of the pool tables, watching, I imagine, a game, although I can’t see past the small crowd. A lone couple sways slowly on the dance floor; neither man appears to be leading. It doesn’t surprise me that the hotel clerk, who made his own inclinations known in such an obvious manner, would refer me to this sort of establishment.

I wait a moment for someone to seat me, but the bartender just waves vaguely in the direction of the heavy wooden tables. I believe he means for me to seat myself, so I do.

An attractive man about my own age is refilling salt shakers at the bar, multicoloured light from the neon beer signs glinting on his many studs and rings. He finishes up his tasks before coming over to take my order.

“Can I get you something, honey? Coffee, tea or me?”

The first time one of the United Airlines flight attendants said this to me, I presumed she was merely attempting to be entertaining. This is now the fifth time I’ve heard it today, if one includes the two additional flight attendants and the ground service technician who was so helpful with my baggage and my wolf. Americans, it seems, are nothing if not forthright.

I smile at the waiter’s small joke. His answering grin is both warm and predatory. I consider him a moment. It’s nice to know one has options. And he’s almost, but not quite, my cup of tea. I place my order without encouraging further conversation. There’s still the desk clerk back at the hotel. I feel rather like Goldilocks with her choice of bears: that one’s too young, this one’s too… pierced. I wonder if the next one will be just right.

The server leaves me to my own devices, and I find myself thinking neither of cultural differences nor of tomorrow’s meeting with the Chicago Police Department, but rather of home. Although I left just days ago, it’s already pulling at me, calling me back. The snow will be gone shortly, and tiny flowers will soon push through the soil. Any remaining ice will be treacherous. Each spring, a few unfortunate snowmobilers fall through the rotting ice. I have been called in to help with the rescues, or, more often, with recovery of the bodies.

The crack of pool balls cuts through my ruminations. It must have been a particularly decisive shot, to judge from the reaction of the audience: some groans, some cheers. Money appears to be changing hands. I glance around nervously. I had, of course, familiarized myself with the local penal code before entering the city of Chicago, and I’m quite certain gambling is illegal here. However, I am not only out of my jurisdiction, but I have bigger, and more personal, fish to fry. I cannot allow myself to be distracted from my pursuit of the killers of my father.

The pool spectators are drifting into smaller knots, revealing an attractive man curved over the table to line up his next shot. A cigarette dangles precariously from sensual lips. The long light fixture that hangs over the pool table illuminates his agreeable features and chemically enhanced blond hair. I am, if not quite smitten, very interested indeed.

This pool-playing man could be just the ticket. Although the hotel clerk and the waiter have both made their interest known, there’s just something about this new man that… tickles my fancy. And I’d like him to. Very much.

“Those who are grieving following the recent demise of a loved one may feel drawn to commit certain life-affirming acts. Be wary of such compulsions.” I can almost hear my father’s voice reading this passage from “Letting Go”, the helpful little RCMP pamphlet on dealing with loss—published in 1956. Buck Frobisher had sent it to me, along with his regrets at being unable to attend my father’s funeral. It seems that even death does not come before duty for the old-school Mountie.

My food arrives, distracting me from my thoughts. I’m finding some solace from my emerging homesickness in the comforting familiarity of the hot turkey sandwich and French fries. An order of poutine would have been greater consolation, but the fact that the waiter couldn’t pronounce it, despite several well-meaning attempts, made it apparent that it’s not a delicacy served at this eatery.

This comfort food reminds me of my grandparents, and my father’s sporadic visits. I miss him. I miss him a great deal. I wish he’d taken the time to get to know me better when I was a child. I wish I’d taken the time to get to know him better once I was a man.

When I look down, I find that my plate is mostly empty and my stomach full. I’m surprised at how much more there is if one isn’t required to share with one’s wolf.

I pick at my French fries, and am just sucking the last of the gravy from my fingers when the blond man raises his head. His eyes seem to be meeting and holding mine, although I’m not sure just how discernible I am in the dim lighting. He continues to stare in my direction, and I make something of a show of potential delights as I suck my fingers. I, too, can be aggressive. When in Rome… or at least Chicago. And... I do have a certain oral fixation.

The object of my scrutiny returns his attention to the game, bending over to line up his next shot. Although I can’t see from this angle, I surmise he has not been successful in sinking his ball, as he steps back to allow his challenger a turn.

I turn my attention to the bill the hovering waiter hands me on a little plastic tray. I extract bills from my left pocket, Canadian currency this time, and place the correct amount on the tray, including taxes, tip and exchange. I hold it out to him, smiling amiably.

My peripheral vision catches movement at the pool table. The blond has donned heavy-framed glasses, and is plainly watching me. I smile in his direction, running my tongue along my lower lip. He winks at me—I think. Hard to tell with the glasses.

The waiter, in the meantime, has finally torn his gaze from me, and is focused on the bill and cash in his hand.

“Hey. What kinda money is this? It’s coloured.” His indignation cuts through the low murmur of the bar, causing a number of heads to snap ’round in our direction.

The bartender, who appears also to be the proprietor, motions us over. “He gave me coloured money,” the waiter accuses as he heads to the bar. I imagine I’m losing my lustre in his eyes.

I follow calmly, keeping an eye on the object of my… interest.

“Hey, buddy. What you tryna pull here?” Predictably, the barkeep is unimpressed with my Canadian bills, although he appears somewhat mollified to discover that the term “coloured money” was meant quite literally, and not as any sort of racial slur. A gentleman from a visible minority himself, he might have reason to be somewhat sensitive.

I attempt to explain that I have included the correct exchange rate, which they could easily verify by calling their credit card vendor. They’ve stopped listening to logic and reason, however, appearing to prefer righteous indignation, which, in my observation, seems to overrule all other lusts and needs for most people.

And speaking of lusts and needs: as I had hoped, the pool-player has forsaken his game to come to my rescue. With a few brief questions he quickly ascertains the situation, and, pocketing my “coloured money”, replaces it with an appropriate number of American bills.

The satisfied barman turns away to deposit the money in the till. My saviour then focuses his attention on me.

“Just tryin’ to head off trouble before it starts.” He follows his terse explanation with a smile that brightens my immediate future.

He extracts a toothpick from the shot glass on the counter and heads back toward his game, gnawing it in a fashion both unhygienic and sexy. Cigarettes. Toothpicks. What a delightfully oral fellow, although I cannot condone the smoking. I follow him across the bar. I think he knew I would.

I settle in to watch him play the rest of his game. I refuse the offer of a drink. My new friend has finished his beer, but declines another. I take this to mean we will be leaving shortly.

I’m not disappointed. He finishes the game, to which I have paid little attention other than to watch his lean body stretch and curl into the appropriate stance for each shot. At one point, he forgoes the rake and lies almost completely on the table. This pose affords me a clean view of him sprawled sexily on the green felt; I can only hope this physical display is for my benefit.

Placing the cue back in its rack, he faces me briefly to announce, “I’m leaving now.” He rests a hand lightly on my shoulder, then lets gravity drag it slowly down to my bicep, where he grasps my leather jacket. “You coming?”

The grin indicates he knows I’m thinking some variant of the childish “No. Just breathing hard.” I grin back, knowing that he knows that I know… and realize I am, indeed, breathing a little hard.

When he heads to the door, I follow.

“Gotta place?”

“Yes. I’m staying at the Hotel McLaughlin.” I’m not concerned about giving this stranger my current address. By tomorrow I will no doubt have relocated.

I consult my little not-to-scale map, and he jerks a thumb over his shoulder toward a small parking lot made dangerous-looking by great slabs of heaved pavement. “I got a car.”

I wonder if his vehicle is safe in this neighbourhood. Would it be any safer nearer my hotel? “Leave it. It’s just a few blocks.”

I head off, hoping he’ll follow me now. With two quick strides, he closes the distance between us. I’m glad he decided to walk with me.

“So, buddy-boy. You gonna give me something to call you?” I stare at him a moment, considering. I would prefer our little tryst to remain anonymous. “So I’ll have something to scream,” he prods jokingly. A truly evil grin flashes across his features this time. A spike of arousal travels my spine.

A name. What moniker shall I offer? I mull over possibilities, discarding “Dudley Do-Right”, “Mackenzie King”, and “Yukon Jack”. He’s looking at me curiously.

I almost blurt out “Diefenbaker”, but the idea of attempting to achieve orgasm with that “pet name” panted in my ear seems, well, a thought best left alone. For a split second, guilt barks at my consciousness, guilt at my faithful companion’s temporary incarceration in quarantine. There’s nothing I can do tonight, though, so for once I’ll think only of myself and ignore the whining in the back of my mind.

Finally, I say “Steve. Steve Constable.” It’s as good a name as any, and offers no clues whereby he could trace me later, should he be so inclined.

“That’s not your real name, is it, Steve?” Perceptive. I’m impressed.

“Well, no, actually. It isn’t. Do you mind?”

“Nah. I don’t care. But now I gotta come up with something for you to call me.”

“Well, you could always use your real name.”

“Now where’s the fun in that? You getting to make up a neat new name and me being stuck with the crappy name my parents came up with when I was born? Nah, I’m gonna make something up, too.” His grin is infectious, and I congratulate myself on my choice. This one is both attractive and entertaining. I await his answer.

“What to call me? What to call me?” He repeats himself. Perhaps he’s nervous. “I know. How ’bout Stanley Kowalski?” His grin suggests he thinks this is quite clever, but already I find myself craving his smiles, and gift him with one of my own in return.

“Ah. You are an admirer of Tennessee Williams then?”

“Er. No, Steve. You mean Marlon Brando, right? This Tennessee guy musta starred in something else. I think he used to be a semi-regular on ‘I Love Lucy’.”

I see. I’m a little disappointed, but remind myself that intellectual stimulation is not what I want from this man, this Stanley Kowalski.

~~~

The walk is mostly uneventful, to my mind, and I find my thoughts drifting, till Stanley calls me back to the present: “You’re a freak, ya know.”

“A what?” I ask, rather inanely. I remind myself that he, too, is not here for the conversation.

“You’re not from around here, are ya, Steve?”

“No, I’m not, actually. Is it that obvious?” I had thought I was fitting in well. Perhaps my accent or lack thereof has betrayed my foreign origins. Stanley’s own accent and grammar is rather inconsistent. I suspect it may be something of an affectation.

“Well, first off, you said it was only a couple of blocks to your hotel, but it’s more like ten.”

“Six, actually. I—”

“And the very fact that we’re walking. _Walking!_ In this part of town, nobody walks. You drive; you take a taxi; you run; you might even crawl, but nobody, nobody walks!”

“I did consider—”

“And….” Stanley interrupts me again. He seems bent on serving up his evidence. “Since leavin’ the bar…” Without slowing his pace, he turns slightly to indicate the direction from which we have come as he counts on his fingers. “…you’ve helped a little old lady across the street even though she accused you of tryna steal her purse, told those gang-bangers spray-painting that old building all about grass-roots art movements, and directed some Chinese tourists who were lost—in Chinese!”

“Well, my Mandarin’s a little rusty, but I’m sure—”

“ _And_ you lectured those street punks on the evils of smoking—”

“A lecture which I feel might have been more effective if you had refrained from lighting up.”

But Stanley has made his case, handed down judgement: “You are definitely _not_ from around here.” He grins triumphantly. He’s been very thorough in recounting the events of our walk, although I’m at a loss as to why any of it would indicate I’m a newcomer to Chicago. “And you’re definitely a freak.”

Ignoring the last, which his wry smile tells me is not intended as insult, I reply, “I’m from Canada, actually. The Northwest Territories, mostly.” My second sentence may have been lost on Stanley, as he all but shouted, “I knew it!” while I was speaking.

“I knew it,” he repeats more calmly this time. “So, I guess you get to meet all the big hockey players. Like Gretzky, Lindros, Smithbauer?”

“Yes,” I tell him. “All Canadians know each other. As a matter of fact, I played pond hockey with Mark Smithbauer when we were growing up.”

He looks sheepish. “Yeah. Guess that was a silly question. Not everybody in Canada knows everybody, right?”

“Right.” It’s a true statement, after all. I don’t bother informing Stanley that I do indeed know Mark Smithbauer very well. Intimately, in fact. I wonder if I’ll run into Mark before I leave Chicago.

“Right,” Stanley echoes, and grins again. I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone whose entire countenance changes so drastically with the simple addition of a smile—and yet there’s nothing “simple” about it. As often written in literature, his smile is dazzling, and does, indeed, light up a room—or in this case, a vestibule, as we’ve entered my hotel.

As we pass the front desk, the hotel clerk stares at us. He looks a trifle annoyed, or maybe a bit disappointed.

I motion to Stanley to wait, and move over to the service counter. In hushed tones I thank the clerk kindly for the restaurant recommendation and detailed directions. It only takes an extra moment to be courteous, after all. He looks past me to better observe Stanley, then gives me a good-natured grin and a thumbs-up.

I return to Stanley and we head up the stairs, foregoing the precarious elevator.

Once in my room, he strips off his leather jacket and shirt. It appears to be a bit chilly here in the evenings, and I’m not surprised he’s wearing a washed-thin and faded T-shirt underneath. He undresses with unconscious grace, like a dancer unaware he’s being watched, but a quick side glance from Stanley tells me he’s quite aware of my scrutiny.

He pushes up close to me, breathing a little harshly against my skin, the combined scents of beer and tobacco neither overpowering nor unpleasant. I place one hand squarely in the centre of his chest, splaying my fingers out like a maple leaf: “I don’t kiss,” I announce firmly, brooking no argument.

Disappointment washes over his features briefly—I almost regret my pronouncement. But kissing is just so… personal. His disappointment is quickly replaced by a shrug and half-nod. “’Kay then. What do ya do?”

“Well for one thing, I don’t discuss it; I just… do it.” I find myself dangerously close to blushing: totally unacceptable.

“Okay, then, Mr. Nike. Let’s _just do it_ then.”

He runs a hand quickly down my shirtfront, pinching and rolling my nipple in a very pleasing manner. A small part of my brain wonders how “Steve Constable” became “Mr. Nike”, but in the end, it doesn’t matter, does it?

I enjoy this a moment, then disengage and take the few steps to the bedside table to switch on the lamp. I look up to find him in the process of switching off the glaring overhead light. We’ve known each other less than an hour, and already our moves are in sync. I look forward to future matched moves.

He strips off the T-shirt, then returns to his leather jacket, picking it up and rifling through the pockets. Just as I’m thinking I’d like to see him wearing nothing but the black leather, he fishes out—presumably from within the lining—a long string of condoms. In the meantime, I have extracted a similar strip of prophylactics, as well as a tube of lubricant from my duffel bag. We seem to work well together. I see we are optimists, he and I. At least we have that much in common.

“Mine’s bigger’n yours,” he declares, holding up the strip of perhaps ten condoms. Mine also contains ten, brand new out of the box, but I don’t bother to point that out to him as he heads to the tiny bathroom.

I begin to strip off my own clothes, placing them on top of the rickety bureau after finding the paint-stuck drawers more trouble to open than the extra space was worth.

He emerges after a moment, accompanied by a resounding flush, already sporting an erection, a condom, and… an ankle holster with a small gun. His hard-on bobs ridiculously as he takes the five steps necessary to cross the room: ridiculous, yet… enticing. He drops his jeans and underwear in a heap next to mine and kneels down to remove the holster. Pausing, he looks at me questioningly. I shrug. This is, after all, America.

Apparently “the right to bear arms” is not merely rhetoric to Stanley.

Standing again, he hands me one of his condoms, the balance of the strip trailing from his other hand like a party streamer. “Your turn.” He jerks his head toward the bathroom. I’m not sure whether this early suiting-up is an American thing, a Chicago thing or merely a Stanley thing. It seems a little premature to me, but then it never hurts to err on the side of caution. Proper preparation and all.

I emerge from the bathroom, condom still in hand—I’m obviously not as quick off the mark as my Stanley. He looks at my penis; his expression is… apprehensive. Then he sees my slightly chagrined face, and smiles that wonderful smile. “Here. I’ll get that for ya,” he offers.

I feel I have to ask, however, if the use of condoms so early in the game is the result of any health-related issues.

“Nah. Not me. I’m clean. Get tested all the time.” In response to my raised eyebrow, he elaborates: “I work in a public service job.”

“Ah.” That explains it. Perhaps a health-care worker… with a gun. “Me, too.”

He leads me to the bed like some frightened virgin, lays me down and starts rubbing my shoulders, arms, chest. He makes another abortive attempt at kissing me on the lips, landing high on my jawbone when I ward off his advances by turning my head. He shrugs, and focuses his attention on parts south.

“Can I do this, then?” he asks, nuzzling my neck. I nod. He pulls back and looks at me inquiringly, and I nod again. “Can I do this?” He moves slowly down my chest, all tongue and teeth. My breathing is rapid, my heartbeat accelerated. “Can I do this?” He moves further down my stomach. At first, I think he has licked my burgeoning erection; this surprises me, because I assumed the early-onset condom meant the fear of even the slightest exchange of body fluids. I lift my head from the lumpy pillow, and realize he’s using saliva and clever fingers to mimic the feel of his tongue. His other hand wraps warmly around the base of my cock, not stroking, just supporting. I can’t help but groan at his dextrous teasing. And at the pretty picture he makes sprawled on his stomach, fully focused on my cock.

He reaches over and removes the unopened condom from my left hand, splitting the wrapper with sharp, even teeth. I have something of a fascination with teeth, attributable, I’m sure, to my early exposure to Inuit standards of beauty. He rolls the cream-coloured latex on with one hand.

“Ah, I do believe you’ve done this before.” My witty line earns me that addictive smile. I’m pleased.

He moves back up beside me, wrapping strong arms around my back and pulling me close. For a moment, I just bask in the skin-to-skin warmth. Human contact is a precious thing I rarely allow myself. Living as I do in closed communities, the chance of discovery is just too dangerous.

My straying thoughts are brought back to our bed rapidly as Stanley thrusts against me, his hip warm and firm against my hard-on. It must have pleased him, too, because he repeats the motion; this time, though, it doesn’t go so well. His condom-clad erection hits mine, and the inadequately lubricated sheaths stick, unsatisfactorily and uncomfortably. There’ll be no rubbing off, given Stanley’s parameters.

So I don’t kiss and he doesn’t allow for unsheathed contact: this interaction begins to frustrate me until he swings around, shoving his pelvis almost into my face. His mouth engulfs my latex-clad penis, and I get the picture. It’s not that I haven’t done this before; I most certainly have, it’s just that I’ve never been top-to-bottom, as it were, only side-by-side. I will try this, though, and I draw him into my own mouth, faintly disgusted by the taste of latex and, hmmm, spermicide, probably Nonoxynol-9.

I focus on the task at hand, or at mouth, to be more specific.

He crouches low over me, supported on knees and elbows, which leaves both my hands free to touch and caress, although I quickly find I need to leave one hand on his cock to prevent him from thrusting too deep. I trace his tan lines with my fingertips, the ghost of summer shorts riding low on his hips. He feels wonderful to me. I pet and grasp and sweep my free hand over his back and ass and all the best parts.

His own technique is delicious: clever mouth, as well as clever hands. He does himself a true disservice, as I can scarcely concentrate on my own efforts. I’m glad I had the sense to jerk off before leaving my room this evening. Otherwise, this would end far too soon for my liking. Oh, dear. It may yet be; his much-too-clever fingers are beginning a fine dance around my ass.

He pulls away from me, hand, mouth and body, then tugs at my hip until I roll toward where he now lies beside me, still head to toe with each other. He arranges my top leg just so and then returns to his sucking and touching. Before I take him back in my mouth, I look down to see he is now wearing a condom on his fingers as well as his dick. When he managed to do that, I haven’t a clue.

Stroking gently, his fingers gradually breach my outer defences, halted by the tight ring of muscle that comprises my inner bulwark. He appears to be asking permission with his fingers—knocking at my back door, as it were. He can’t speak now, because my cock is busy making love to his uvula. I concentrate a moment and relax my sphincter as much as I can. I don’t allow this type of invasion often.

Instead of pressing his advantage, he pulls back from me. Perhaps he misunderstood. I’m about to offer a clearer invitation when he asks me a strange question, one I’m almost loath to answer.

“Hey, Steve. You got a knife or scissors? Somethin’ that cuts?”

My first reaction is to tell him no, but then I’m… curious. Curious and excited. What could he possibly be up to? I know I have a tendency to endanger myself on occasion. I’m what they call in popular parlance an “adrenaline junkie”. I imagine that picking up a stranger in a bar would be enough for some, but it seems I must actually hand Stanley the means with which to harm or even kill me before my inner demons are satisfied. The ankle holster swims in the back of my mind.

“In my duffel,” I instruct. “Inner pocket.”

The bed dips, but doesn’t really spring back much when he moves to squat unbecomingly on the floor beside my gear. Too late, I realize he has access to the luggage tag with my real name on it. Perhaps he’s not bright enough—or interested enough—to notice. And indeed, why would he care what my real name is? He seemed quite amused by the name game as we walked here.

“Whoa! Now that’s a knife!” He has a knack for stating the obvious. “You get this offa Crocodile Dundee or what?”

“Actually, it’s a Bowie knife,” I explain, unfamiliar with the Dundee model.

“David Bowie?” He asks, grinning. I don’t dignify that with a reply. I know that he knows. He’s just playing with me. I get it.

He returns to bed with the knife, and removes another condom from its packet. He unfurls it and slits one side carefully, until it’s mostly a flat, ragged rectangle. “Turn over,” he orders. Before I comply I take the knife from him, flash it dangerously for a moment. When just the right amount of uncertainty shows in his eyes, I re-sheath it and shove it well under the mattress. Once our combined weight is on the bed, it will be next to impossible to extract. I think we are both relieved.

“Turn over,” he orders again. I obey, curious. I had thought myself experienced in matters of this sort, but it appears that I’ll learn a thing or two tonight.

I feel gentle kisses and suction on my shoulders and back, varied with the occasional bite, which I quite like. Gradually, all hands and mouth, he works his way down my spine and spends some time nipping at my bottom. I have a sensitive derriere, the left cheek even more than the right, and find myself hissing and twisting in pleasure as he figures out I like less gentleness and more teeth. I trust he will not break the skin, although I imagine I’ll have bruises for days to come. Just as I’m beginning to tire of this, he changes back to licking and mouthing. It’s a delightful contrast, cooling the hot spots where he’s brought the blood close to the surface and soothing the burning sensations well. His tongue traces the valley between my cheeks repeatedly, still very much a tease, despite the obviousness of the ultimate goal. It dawns on me what the bisected condom is for. A frisson of anticipation teases my soul.

Kneeling at my left hip, he carefully spreads the split condom across my anus, taking great pains to position it just so. I know if I could see him now he’d be smirking, keeping me waiting on purpose. Just when I think I might have to come up with something to hurry him along, the bed gives again as he bends to take up his task, and I’m… undone.

This act, this selfless, empowering act, unmakes me. I’m… transported. I would writhe and moan if I could, but it’s all I can do to keep breathing. I trust he will understand, that he will interpret my utter stillness and relative silence for the high praise and gratitude it is.

And he does, it seems. He must, as he keeps rimming me until I’m all but whimpering, panting like Dief in August.

Eventually, Stanley sits back on his haunches; surely his tongue must be tired. He tugs gently at the latex barrier that has now worked a bit of its way into my loosened hole. It comes free with little convincing, and cool air wafts across my hot, wet ass—an almost eerie feeling that makes me shiver, like the breath of a ghost. Bracing himself with one hand on the small of my back, Stanley leans over to snatch the lubricant from the nightstand. I want to tell him that I don’t get fucked, that I only fuck, but my tongue seems to have fallen under the spell woven by his, and all that escapes me is a groan.

Two slick fingers enter, once again condom-coated, stretching, moving, adding greater intensity to this sensitive and largely untried portal. He spends a long time working me. He must know the five Ps, but at the moment, they escape me. He’s sliding his fingers along and over and in and down and across that oh-so-sweet-spot, and I can’t believe I haven’t come yet. He finds just the right rhythm to taunt and haunt me without bringing me too close. I’d been rubbing myself against the tasteless floral bedspread, no doubt not the first occupant of the room to do so, when Stanley forces me up onto my knees and shoves all three of the room’s lumpy pillows under my chest, preventing me from getting any friction. Have pleasure and frustration ever been so closely intertwined? This man is truly an artist.

His fingers work their gentle magic, and I ask myself why I avoid anal-receptive sex. I can’t seem to recall why I came to this decision when he slides his cock across me. I’m gasping, although how I can be surprised by this next step is beyond me. But then I surprise myself by canting my hips upward to… show him my acceptance. I want this. Don’t deny me. Give it to me. Now!

He shifts again, freeing one arm for guidance, as he feeds his cock into my waiting ass. Despite the stretching and preparation, it burns. It burns like fire. He’s gone from artist to arsonist, his cock a flamethrower. I gasp. But I’ve asked for this. I can take it. I know it will get better.

Gradually he works his way in. I concentrate on relaxing, using the bio-feedback and relaxation techniques I’ve studied and mastered. I can, under the right circumstances, lower my body’s rhythms even unto the point of simulated death. A momentary vision of my father laid out in his coffin crosses my inner eye. I shake my head, trying to clear my mind and focus on the task at hand. Tonight I find that instead of relaxing I’m tensing up, which only makes this harder… and other things half-hard, as he discovers when he reaches ’round with a helping hand.

“You okay there, Steve?”

“Fine,” I choke out. “Please continue.” Surely, after all this stimulation, he must be close to orgasm. It won’t last too long. Then I realize most of the stimulation has been of me, of my body. I should have given him more. I’m ashamed. And even more determined to let him come within me.

He makes a few more tentative thrusts. I try thrusting back, hoping he mistakes my groan of pain for one of pleasure.

Not so, it seems: he comes to a halt, panting like a wolf himself now. One more feel of my retreating erection, and he braces a hand on my hip. “Breathe out,” he commands, and I do, somehow more saddened than gladdened to feel him depart.

He flops down next to me, where I, still supported by pillows, continue to kneel like a supplicant begging forgiveness. I am humiliated by my poor performance. I blush into my pillow.

He pushes a bit on my shoulder and I allow myself to fall sideways, almost dropping off the bed. He drags the pillows out of the way and then coaxes me back into the space I just vacated, this time lying on my back. He holds one of the pillows out until I lift up, and he places it gently under my head. What a nice guy. Nice guys deserve better.

I work up the nerve to glance down at the condom he still wears, prepared for yet further humiliation, but no. It glistens with moisture only. I’m relieved.

He follows my gaze, and, bouncing up with more energy than I think I can bear to be near right now, heads once again for the bathroom, this time not bothering to close the door as he removes the ill-used condom, urinates thunderously, and hopefully, from the sound of running and sloshing water, washes thoroughly. When he emerges, his erection resembles mine—notable by its absence.

Returning to the bed, he lies back down beside me. “Hey,” he says softly, a gentling hand on my shoulder, his forehead pressed against mine. My misery must show in my face; he squeezes me in a quick hug, then pulls back to watch my expression. “You gotta tell a guy if you’re not enjoying something. I feel like a real shit.” Oh. So this is about him now. Well, maybe he has a point.

“This isn’t your first time or anything, is it?”

I shake my head, but figure I need to become verbal again sometime. “No. I just, well, don’t do it very often.” I chuckle small—a gallows laugh. “I believe I need to either stop doing it altogether, or make a point of doing it a lot more often.”

“Well....” I can’t believe he’s smiling. What is there to smile about after my miserable performance? “If it’s doin’ it a lot you settle on, I am all over that.” He actually waggles his eyebrows in a contrived and obvious manner. I’m aghast at his lack of sensitivity. “If you’re looking for volunteers, that is.” He looks away, uncomfortable. Oh, my. He’s asking to see me again. He actually wants to see me again, after… that. No. No. No.

The silence between us stretches out. He must understand that I will not, cannot, see him again. Not under these circumstances, certainly. Not under any circumstances, actually. Not him, not anyone—man or woman. It would hardly be fair to involve another person in my current, nationless state.

My foreseeable future holds no certainties. First I must deal with the killers of my father; then there’s the fact that I’m not always held in the highest regard by my fellow RCMP. And now I have taken this posting at the Chicago consular offices, and must try and build a new life in an alien land. I have already given this great consideration, and have decided that I cannot afford the luxury of a relationship at this point in my life. No entrapments or entanglements for this Mountie, thank you kindly.

I leave off thinking about my life as Stanley runs his hand lightly down my torso, coming to rest on my traitorous member. I’m about to push him away when I feel gentle fingers peeling off the offending condom. A flick of the wrist and it sails away, toward, I hope, the wastebasket. He tugs lightly at my foreskin. Circumcised men always seem enamoured of my prepuce.

His hand leaves my penis and trails gently up and down my arm. For God knows what reason, this comforting gesture leaves me feeling emotionally raw; recent events surrounding the death of my father suddenly catch up with me, and I’m a mass of grief, rage, guilt, embarrassment and apprehension. Exploration and separation anxiety churn in my stomach, and for an aching moment I’m not sure if I’ll scream, vomit or cry. Apparently I still have enough self-control to restrain myself from doing any of these, but an ill-timed gasp, coupled with a massive shudder, gives Stanley-the-nice-guy all the evidence he needs to realize I’m not quite myself. Without words, he gathers me into his arms and just… holds me. I take small comfort in the fact that while I can’t seem to control the shaking, I don’t actually cry.

The shivering must have stopped eventually, because, despite my internal turmoil, I have fallen asleep on my guest. Stanley, good sport that he is, is watching TV with the sound off, flipping channels with a remote control that’s leashed to the bedside table by a short coil of plastic wire. His other arm is tangled under me, probably long asleep. He will have a sorry case of pins and needles as reward for his gentle comfort. Personally, I would have left. Or at least I would have envied the sort of person who could.

“Have a good nap, there, Steve?”

Steve? Who’s…? Oh. I’m Steve. I remember. I raise up enough for him to retrieve his arm, scrubbing my face with my hands.

“I believe I shall live.” Small reassurance. “How long was I asleep?”

“Coupla hours, I think.” He squints in the direction of the clock radio on the bureau, but I recall from the bar that he can’t see distances without his glasses. I also recall his firearm, and am momentarily concerned for the safety of the citizens of Chicago. “Coulda been longer. I slept a bit myself.” He rubs one eye tiredly as if to emphasize his point.

“It’s getting late,” I say, not bothering to enlighten him about the exact time. I want him to leave now. I don’t want to face the witness of my recent humiliation a moment longer than necessary.

“Nah,” he counters, “it’s early yet.” And he rolls toward me, nuzzling my neck, his spiky hair crunchy with pleasantly scented hair products where it rubs against my evening stubble. I plan to let him drift along my body for a few minutes more before I ask him to leave, but then I find myself beginning to respond; it’s not too surprising, I suppose, after our earlier level of arousal without satisfaction. Stanley also sports evidence of renewed interest as his erection, this time unsheathed, bumps against my thigh.

To prevent any repeat performances of our earlier fiasco, I guide him back up to lie next to me. He looks at me expectantly and I decide to give him a gift, a treasure, although the value will no doubt be lost on him. I splay my hands out on either side of his face, and, holding him just so, move my lips over his. He gasps; I think he’s trying to say something, but whatever it is resonates hollowly within the tunnel formed by our joined mouths, like Inuit throat-singing. My tongue bumps his, then slides slickly into his mouth as I take the lead this time.

Apparently Stanley likes kissing, likes kissing a lot. Small wonder he appeared disappointed at my earlier edict. He isn’t, however, content to let me lead, and forces his body over onto mine, using his tongue to emulate fucking, as his hips move in rhythm against me. Our cocks collide in delicious friction—no tacky latex to prevent slip and slide. We keep this up for some minutes, the intensity building from pleasant to pleasurable to deadly serious, and all thought of stopping has fled my aroused brain.

And yet, to my displeasure, he does stop. He rips his mouth from mine, panting hard, and scrambles toward the bedside table, grabbing the lubricant. My worries that he’s going to try penetration again are short-lived as he rolls to one side, his hip bone crushing against mine painfully, and squeezes an excessive amount of lubricant on my cock, abdomen, stomach.

“Oops,” he says, self-deprecating little grin fluttering across his battered lips. He shrugs and drops the uncapped tube on the floor, which causes me no concern at all, and virtually throws himself back into action—he’s quite the wild one when he lets himself go. Seeing him this way, I’m amazed by how gentle and controlled he was before.

I spare no further thoughts for him and his performance or his pleasure as my own builds within me. My eyes are open, but I no longer see. He tries kissing again, but I can’t get enough air with his mouth plastered over mine, so I all but elbow him away. He must be okay with that, because he doesn’t stop—doesn’t halt the crucial rhythm that I crave, must have; don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t…

I add my contribution to the swamp between us; this simple frottagehas given me more enjoyment than the more invasive act ever has. I continue to thrust against him, despite the increased sensitivity of my post-orgasmic penis. It’s the least I can do. I wrap my arms around him tightly; I free one hand and let it travel down his smooth, warm flesh towards his sexy ass. I run my fingers teasingly along his crack. His thrusts become uneven, breathing ragged, and suddenly he stiffens, freezing in place. I can feel every contraction, every spurt, as yet more viscous liquid is added to the mess that coats our bellies.

He seizes my jaw and slams his mouth down on mine, kissing me forcefully, gratitude and joy screaming from his every pore. I kiss back with equal zeal, clutching him to me. He feels so good I never want to let go. He pulls away panting and laughing, that smile reaching new heights of dazzling. I’m focusing intently on his face, determined to remember this moment for all time, this picture of sated, sweaty, messy masculine beauty. Because I shall never see him again. Of this I’m sure.

“Oh, baby.” His voice is hoarse. “That was amazing. You rocked my world.” I suppose this is a good thing. And he rocks into my body a bit more, just to make his point. Yes. Definitely a good thing—if it keeps him smiling. I smile back, tentatively.

He allows himself to fall on his back beside me, laughing again as he runs a finger through the sticky puddle on my belly.

“Wanna take a shower?” Apparently, the guest has become the host. I hadn’t considered company for this pragmatic task. It seems like a pleasant idea.

“Yes. I think we’d better.” I drag my lethargic body to the shower stall that’s barely big enough for one, let alone two. Stanley shadow-boxes and dances like a dervish from bed to shower, taking command of the taps and trying to get me to do something called “the bump”.

His playfulness keeps up throughout the shower; I’m totally washed and dried. And kissed. I hadn’t realized so much kissing was an essential part of post-coital cleanup. He takes complete control, ordering me to stand here, move there, turn around, wait here. Somehow this man has transmuted functions of devotion and servitude into controlling, empowering acts. I’m reminded of stories where domestic employees come to run the wealthy households they serve. Or secretaries who manage large companies. I’m reminded of me.

Eventually we are clean and dry, and Stanley, now in T-shirt and underwear, looks at me inquiringly.

“Can I stay?”

Oh, the dreaded words. And grammatically incorrect, as well.

I let the silence draw out for long moments while I look at him blandly. I can’t let what I really feel show on my face. I truly like this man, and under other circumstances….

“It’s late. I have an early appointment.” It’s the truth. The absolute truth. And besides, I barely know him. So why does the tightness in my chest feel a lot like the loss I feel for my father? I’ll never have a chance to know this man, either. Unless… but he interrupts my thoughts, and the moment is gone.

“’Kay. I gotta get up early tomorrow, too.” He retrieves his weapon, and kneels again to re-fasten it to his ankle. He finishes dressing and heads for the door, pausing a moment, uncertain. “Uh. Can I call you?”

I stand before him at parade rest, the effect rather muted as I’m wearing nothing but a towel. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea. And besides, I may not be staying in town long.” I thumb one eyebrow. Perhaps it’s not a lie. Perhaps I will see my father’s killers apprehended very shortly, and be reassigned back up north. I can’t meet his penetrating eyes for a moment, and gaze instead at my bare feet on the dirty orange carpet.

“Oh. Well, okay then.” He stands there, body poised for movement but uncertain as to direction. He’s no doubt trying to decide if a goodbye kiss is in order. I’m trying to decide that myself. “See ya,” he adds, still not leaving.

“No. I don’t think you will. It just wouldn’t be wise,” I say obstinately. I know it’s just a figure of speech, but I’m determined he get the message. He strikes me as the stubborn sort who might just try and find me again. I don’t know if I can be strong if I see him again. What if I were to become attached to him? And then he left me, too? I don’t think I could bear that.

He looks rather dispirited, then appears to steel himself. “So you don’t think we’ll see each other again, huh? I’m not so sure about that.”

I sigh. Here we go.

He must realize I’m not going to speak, and continues, “I’m not a logical kind of guy. I run on instinct, mainly. And my gut tells me we are gonna see each other again. Some day.”

Please. Please. Please don’t let him tell me he’s psychic. I may have to change hotels this very evening. Or morning, now, to be precise.

“One day,” he continues, “You’ll run into me when you least expect it. You’ll call to me across a crowded room. I’ll turn around and yell your name and wrap you up in a great big hug.”

Hmmm. A ridiculous scenario. “And this hug. Would that be in public?” I can’t help but point out the flaw in his theory.

“Yeah.” He’s warming to his theme, his face creasing with a new smile. “You’ll see. Just like the corniest old movie.”

I’m drawn into his game for a moment, then shrug off the spell he’s attempting to weave. “That’s preposterous. We don’t even know each other’s real names.”

“Well, you may not.” Stanley is smirking like the Cheshire Cat. “But I do… _B. Fraser.”_

Oh, God. That damnable luggage tag.

While I ponder this new predicament, he walks over to me, grabs my head in both hands, and, smiling into my face, moves in to kiss me again. It’s hot and distant at the same time: clearly goodbye. I get the message that he got my message. I’m very relieved. I’m very tired. I’m very tempted.

He draws away and heads for the door, letting himself out. I am, indeed, a poor host. The last thing I see of him is a quick grin and accompanying wink, so very dear that I almost call him back. But then he’s gone, and I’m free to go on as before. Alone.

  
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_Part 2: And, for reasons that don’t need exploring at this juncture, have remained._   
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I return from my vacation, feeling refreshed and restored, bearing gifts for all my Chicago associates. It’s a shame Ray couldn’t accompany me, but I’m greatly looking forward to seeing him again, although a little troubled by our last telephone conversation. By that, and by the fact that my apartment building has burned to the ground.

I walk into the _two-seven_ , as I have come to call it, and see my friend standing by his desk. I can’t wait to even cross the room, and uncharacteristically call out to him.

“Ray!”

He turns around, and…. Oh. My. God.

“Fraser!” And before I can think, I’m engulfed in the warm hug predicted years ago, when I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father.

  _End_


End file.
